


Departure

by DancingGrimm



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Casual Sex, M/M, Oral Sex, Possibly AU, Pre-Canon, Semi-Public Sex, Strangers
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-11
Updated: 2015-02-11
Packaged: 2018-03-11 22:34:21
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,350
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3335258
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Surely Anton could allow himself this. He would be on his own in the desert soon, for however long he could make it, only a gang of war-hardened mercenaries for company and no hope for intimacy of the kind he preferred. He could allow himself just a little enjoyment, a little release with an attractive stranger, in his last hours before the future swallowed him up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Departure

The man sitting across from Anton wore yellow tinted sunglasses, which meant that one had to pay careful attention to see what direction he was looking in. Every time Anton raised his eyes, the man was looking directly at him, and then quickly glancing away.

He knew what that meant. And really, this had to be one of the last times and places he would have expected to find somebody showing an interest in him.

He'd been on the run across the US for seventeen months when the offer from his new employers reached him, and he had been beginning to give up hope. He couldn't return to Germany, or really to any part of Europe, as infamous as his name had become in certain circles, and he had been at the end of his resources when he had accepted the job. Isolation in a quasi-military base in the middle of the New Mexico desert didn't sound like his idea of living, but it would do. He would be able to resume his research. And it would mean anonymity. An escape from the rumours and accusations that had plagued him, both criminal and personal.

And yet here, sitting quietly in the airport in San Jose, waiting for his flight to Grant County, trying so damn hard to keep to himself and not get into any more trouble when he was so close to being mostly _out_ of trouble for the first time since 1941, temptation was looking his way.

Temptation had a narrow, rugged face and long lean legs; broad, sloping shoulders and two-day stubble. His jeans and leather jacket were battered and worn, the canvas rucksack that lay on the floor by his feet was faded. Under the unusual broad-brimmed hat he wore, his hair was dark and smooth. He held a newspaper, printed in a South East Asian language, in long fingered hands.

He hadn't turned a page since he had started looking at Anton.

Anton looked uncomfortably around the departure area. It was quiet, understandable given that the flight was a late one and most of the passengers would doubtless have the same plans as him; to sleep through as much of it as possible. There were several rows of uncomfortable plastic seats, spaced along metal beams, lined up on either side of a wide walkway. There were a couple of gates on Anton's side, a couple more on his admirer's side, and that was it for this section of the airport. A few dozen travellers were scattered around on the seats, dozing or reading or eating poor quality food from the nearby refreshment counter.

None of them had noticed Anton and his admirer exchanging glances, he was certain.

Anton sat two rows of seats back from the walkway, while the other man sat almost directly opposite him, in the front row on the other side. He looked relaxed and confident, his legs slightly spread, his posture slouching. He glanced up at Anton, and back to his newspaper.

Surely Anton could allow himself this. He would be on his own in the desert soon, for however long he could make it, only a gang of war-hardened mercenaries for company and no hope for intimacy of the kind he preferred. He could allow himself just a little enjoyment, a little release with an attractive stranger, in his last hours before the future swallowed him up.

The next time the other man looked at him, Anton was already staring back, and he held his gaze purposefully. Even through the barrier of those sunglasses, he could tell his intention had been read. He broke eye contact to look away to his left, towards the small corridor down which the lavatories were housed, then back to his stranger.

If it hadn't been for the tilt of the man's hat brim, Anton might not have been quite certain that the other man had reacted. But, he had.

Anton folded the journal that had lain unopened in his hand for the last half hour, picked up his small satchel from underneath the seat, got to his feet, and smoothed his coat carefully, distractedly, as if he had nothing at all on his mind but the usual annoyances of travel. He glanced around the departure area quickly to satisfy himself that the silent exchange had gone unnoticed, that nobody else was getting up to go to the bathroom, and kept his eyes off the other man entirely as he set off for the corridor.

He could feel little twinges of excitement building in his abdomen and his lower back, already.

As he had thought, there was nobody else moving toward the lavatories. Anton pushed open the door to the men's room, noting with relief that there was a lock on the door. Inside, the room was lined with grey tiles and lit in harsh fluorescent. There were five urinals, three stalls, and four hand basins with mirrors above them. Nobody there but him, he double checked.

Anton faltered now; he had always had a knack for picking men up, but this part of the interaction always threw him off. Should he wait out in the open? Or go into a stall? Was it possible at this point to come on too strong?

He was saved from dithering further by the creak of the door opening again. He turned to see his stranger locking the door behind him. The man pulled on the handle to check that the lock had engaged, then turned to Anton. Anton dropped his satchel on the floor, slipped his coat off and threw it onto the counter by the basins.

“Yeah?” the other man said. Vague, but Anton understood what he was being asked. He nodded.

His stranger crossed the room towards him in one long stride and grabbed the front of Anton's shirt (his tie and a little of his chest hair as well). Another step that shunted Anton along with him, and they were both in one of the stalls, narrow but with enough room for them to get inside and shut the door behind them. Anton turned and grimaced at the lavatory, knocked the lid shut with one hand, while his stranger stuck his sunglasses in a pocket of his jacket, took the jacket and his hat off, and let them crumple into a bundle on the floor. His hands came up to Anton's shoulders and, with a firm shove, he pushed Anton down to sit on the lavatory lid.

Anton dropped with a little huff of breath and opened his mouth to ask his stranger what exactly he wanted. But the other man was kneeling down, and Anton shut his mouth and scrabbled to unfasten the fly of his trousers. His stranger looked up at his face, and the expression in his pale blue eyes was earnest and terribly hungry. A gasp burst out of Anton's throat, and he finally managed to shove his trousers and underwear down, just enough, leaning back against the cistern to do so. His stranger grabbed his thigh with one hand, his half-hard cock with the other, and bent his head.

His lips were thin and dry, his tongue a delicious contrast of slippery wetness, and Anton was rigid in moments. Those blue eyes flashed back up to glance at his face, which he had no doubt must have been turning steadily redder and redder. Eye contact caught and held. His stranger smiled up at him and Anton saw his teeth, the jagged little points on his incisors and bicuspids, like those of a carnivore, and the sight made his breath catch in his throat.

The smile turned into a grin.

Then his stranger lowered his head and took him deep into his mouth, most of the way down on him with the first bob of his head. Another lunge down, and Anton felt the silk at the back of his throat against the tip of his cock, and had to clap his hand over his mouth to stop himself from crying out. His stranger pulled back slowly, lips dragging around Anton's shaft, and he could feel the slightest scrape of those mean little teeth.

Anton whined in the back of his throat. The hand that wasn't covering his mouth was clenched into the back of his stranger's shirt. He wanted to grab his smooth, dark hair, but stupidly found he couldn't quite bring himself to be so impolite.

His cock was sucked down again, the opening of his stranger's throat flickering teasingly against the head. This time when he lifted back up, he sucked hard, hollowing his cheeks and sending shocks of sensation through Anton that made the muscles of his stomach quiver. The hand on his thigh squeezed tight and another dip down, another hard suck, and he was whimpering.

There was sweat soaking into his undershirt. Drops of saliva sliding down around the root of his cock and his scrotum and tickling his perineum.

Deep dip down and hard, almost too hard, suck back up.

Over and over.

Thighs trembling.

Hands clenching.

Lungs heaving with effort.

He could feel his orgasm creeping up to the surface, like a toxin that needed to be purged from his body. He dragged his hand away from his mouth to try and give a warning, but all he could manage to get out was “Gott... _gott_!”

His stranger took his hand away from the base of Anton's cock, grabbed Anton's other thigh, and went down on him all the way.

Just...swallowed him up.

Anton slapped his hand back across his mouth just in time, as a cry of helpless delight bubbled up from inside him. It felt glorious, the warmth, the wetness, and tight hard suck and the twitching grip of throat muscles. His hand was in his stranger's hair as he came down his throat.

He was allowed only a few moments to pull himself back together, before his stranger pulled his mouth off him a little too quickly, baring his wet, shrinking cock to the cold. Anton brought his shaking hands up to rub his face, feeling soreness beginning in his thighs and on the skin of his cock. He'd never had quite so rough a blow job, all teeth and pressure.

Thoroughly enjoyable.

He pulled himself together enough to reciprocate. His stranger had gotten to his feet and was unfastening his belt and the fly of his jeans. Anton tucked himself back into his underwear, a little too sensitive to do his clothes back up yet but he disliked having everything hanging out.

His stranger pulled his cock out; long and sleek, the tip already shining with moisture. He raised one foot, clad in a boot made from what looked like alligator skin, and set it on the lid of the lavatory, next to Anton's hip. Anton looked up at him; his face was stoic, for all that his lips were red and his stubble glistening with saliva.

Anton slipped off his glasses, folded them, and put them into his waistcoat pocket. Reached out and gave his stranger's cock a light stroke with his hand, then a firmer stroke. Then he held it tightly and leaned in to settle his lips around the head.

He had never quite worked out the trick to deep throating or, rather, he had but found he disliked it. Not to worry though, he was confident that he could make up the difference with other techniques.

His stranger was uncut, a nice surprise. So many Americans were circumcised, and he did so like to have a foreskin to play with. It was a little loose despite arousal, and he pushed it back with his lips, then slid his mouth down past it and sucked gently, sliding the soft little wrinkle up and down with his tongue.

His stranger gave a soft, throaty groan, and Anton brought his other hand up to hold onto his hip. He drew back and slid his lips all over and around the glans, flicking at the hard flesh with the tip of his tongue, then slurped him back in again and gave him a firm suck, bobbing his head gently.

His stranger was impolite; a hand slipped into Anton's hair. It didn't grip though, didn't pull, so he allowed it.

He pulled back again, pulled his mouth completely away and stuck out his tongue to tease his stranger's urethra with the tip, gave him another stroke with his hand through the gathering slick of saliva. His stranger made a little grunt with every exhalation, a harsh and very gratifying sound.

Anton sucked him back in, stroking the underside of his shaft lavishly with his tongue. Pulled back to play with the head and felt a spurt of pre-ejaculate against his palate. _Stop playing around_ , he told himself firmly, then took his stranger's cock comfortably deep and settled in to bring him off.

He bobbed his head steadily, sucking firmly as he pulled up each time, flickering and rubbing and scouring with his tongue on the way back down. He twisted and squeezed his hand around the base of the shaft, and lifted his other hand from his stranger's hip to tug the placket of his jeans down a little further until he could hold his testicles, gently roll them in his hand.

His stranger was thrusting his hips forward now, the movement not quite strong enough to upset Anton, he hadn't even noticed when it began. The hand in his hair clenched and released, clenched and released, his stranger trying so hard not to be a brute.

He wasn't quite well-mannered enough to give Anton warning that he was about to come, but for a man of Anton's profession and experience, it wasn't too difficult to tell. The clenching of muscles, the upwards tug of his testicles, the rush of thin, brackish liquid in his mouth, and Anton sucked him steadily while he strained and growled and panted through his orgasm.

He sat back a little on the lavatory lid. Wiped his mouth and swallowed. Put his glasses back on, slowly.

His stranger had one forearm braced on the side of the stall and his other hand, the one that had been in Anton's hair, now rested on Anton's shoulder. They stared at each other, blank and spent, for a long, quiet moment. Then the hand on his shoulder slid onto his back and he was tugged forward, drawn against his stranger's body. His face ended up pressed to the other man's ribcage, the hard shape of the bones feeling too well defined against his temple. He brought his own arms up and settled his hands on the stranger's hips and then, after a pause, slid them around him. Both the other man's hands were on him now, moving just a little on his upper back.

This would do. This would keep him going for a while. Enough pleasure and connection and contact to let him remain himself through whatever ordeal might come next.

He wondered what his stranger was bracing himself for.

After what might have been as much as several minutes, he was released. Without looking at him, the other man rearranged his clothes, picked up and put on his jacket and hat, and left the stall. The door swung most of the way closed behind him. Anton breathed quietly, listening to him move around the small room, boots tapping distinctly on the tiles. He washed his hands and rinsed out his mouth, unlocked the door, and left.

Well, that was that.

Anton pushed the door of the stall all the way closed, locked it, lifted the lid of the lavatory and urinated. He took a moment to make sure his clothing was in order, then went back out into the bathroom and put on his coat, washed his hands and rinsed his mouth as his stranger had done, took his comb from his pocket and tidied his hair, picked up his bag, and left.

Going back out into the airport terminal seemed like he was stepping back into reality after a pleasant daydream. Harsh and rather unsettling. A voice droned over the tannoy, and Anton listened to it repeat twice before he realised that his flight was being called. Already people were trooping out of the terminal doors on their way to the plane. He glanced around the large, open space for one last glimpse of his stranger, but couldn't see him.

Why ask for the moon when he had the stars, he decided, and went to join the queue for his flight.

::

As he had planned, he slept through the flight. His interaction with the stranger may have helped, somewhat. Before they even took off, he had rested his head against the inner wall of the plane, ignoring completely the banal attempts at conversation of the business traveller seated next to him, and dozed off. The next thing he knew, a stewardess was leaning over him to slide up the thin window shutter, and pale early morning light was streaming in.

He looked out of the window for his first glimpse of New Mexico, and saw an expanse of sun blighted, sand scattered concrete and a cluster of yawning airport workers.

He was one of the first to leave the plane, having been seated near the doors, and was quite pleased to have avoided any unwanted socialisation with his fellow travellers. He wasn't in the mood. He descended the steps, squinting in the sun, and glimpsed the meeter he had been promised, a young man in an ill-fitting suit holding a sheet of card with his new false name printed on it. He looked around and saw a few other people holding cards, a few more with small children in their arms, one man holding a large bunch of roses. Over near the small terminal, a battered van was parked, an airport worker loitering around it, tossing the keys up and down in his hand as he waited to hand them off to their owner.

New Mexico seemed quite dull, Anton decided.

He greeted the man who had been sent to meet him with cool politeness, got into the car, and let his mind wander as he was driven away. It kept wandering unhelpfully to the feeling of a warm hand in his hair and salt on his tongue.

::

The base was unimpressive, but Anton hadn't been expecting much. He was met by his new employer's assistant, an efficient young woman who politely welcomed him to the company and showed him to his quarters. The room itself was acceptable. The laboratory across the corridor from it was perfect.

The young assistant asked him to put on his uniform and be ready to attend an orientation meeting, and he said goodbye to her and set about washing and changing his clothes. The uniform wasn't as bad as he'd been expecting; he even had a shirt and tie, which he liked. He preferred to be neat and respectable. Gave him an edge.

He arrived in the briefing room for the meeting to find the assistant and several other men waiting. There was a very large, powerfully built man, a short stocky man with a shaved head, a boy barely out of his teens who looked at him with open suspicion, and...somebody in a sealed suit. He took a seat at the table, opposite the very large man, and the young assistant introduced him to the rest of them. It seemed unnecessary to explain that he was the medic, given that he was wearing a white coat with cross emblems on it, but she said it anyway.

Behind him, the door creaked open.

“And this is our sniper,” the assistant said. Anton turned in his seat.

The sniper had a narrow, rugged face and long lean legs; broad, sloping shoulders and three-day stubble.

Their eyes met.

Anton's mouth went dry.

A month seemed to pass without anybody else in the room seeming to notice.

“G'day,” the sniper said eventually, and he sat down at the table.

**Author's Note:**

> This story is the first one to escape my brain in its entirety, having pipped the many many other plot bunnies and half finished attempts to the post. I hope you enjoyed it. As always, I love feedback and constructive criticism, so please let me know.
> 
> Also, if anybody has followed me here from the Sherlock fandom (hi there!) and wants to know who the hell these two weirdos having fun in a toilet cubicle are, I've made a helpful little intro document to the TF2 fandom; [here](http://dancinggrimm.tumblr.com/post/108195363237/as-ive-officially-started-posting-stories-for).


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